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Saint Patrick's Day. Once, a one day, get-out-of-Catholic-School-free day, and now a holiday that starts right after Valentine's Day and ends with one giant hangover a month later. Ouch.

My earliest memories of the day are rushing home from public school to watch Captain Jack McCarthy (Cap'n Jack) on WPIX hosting the parade down Fifth Avenue while my Irish Mom boiled a big pot of corned beef, cabbage and potatoes on the stove. My Italian Dad would relish that once a year treat while my brothers and I would gag. I think I might be the only person still to have never eaten a corned beef sandwich at Kelly's-the most famous Irish bar in the area.

I went to a Catholic High School, and as I said, we had off. Our school colors were green and gold, our mascot was a leprechaun and we were called Caseys. It wasn't much of a brainer to see that being Irish in that school carried some pretty heavy weight. On Saint Paddy's Day, our cheerleaders would go into the city an…

If I were starving and my only two options to live were to either chew off my own arm and eat it, or work as a telemarketer calling people just like me, I'd have to say:

"Pass the ketchup."

In the past couple of years, I have gone completely ballistic on telemarketers and people from call centers. Granted, there are times when I can't distinguish them from the men calling about the transgender club that my phone number use to be associated with. Other times when I've pretended to be the maid, the babysitter, even stooped so low as to say I'm the nurse taking care of a dying patient just to mess with them.

Right after Wingman died, his cellphone rang with a strange number. A guy with a very heavy accent from the "World's Largest Department Store" wanted to speak to him about his late credit card payment. I apologized, said I was his wife and he had passed the week before, but I would take care the entire bill as soon as I could. The man claim…